


Worthy

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Adventure, Backstory, Dark Fantasy, dark fantasy bingo: hazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kidnapped, stripped naked and left in the dark, Mycroft must rely on his wits and courage if he's to survive the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worthy

***

They kidnap him in full view of witnesses. Two unremarkable looking men in tailored suits bracket Mycroft as he walks out of 22 Whitehall Street after a long day of meetings. Before he can so much as raise an eyebrow in outrage, there's the sharp sting of a needle entering his skin. He has a vague memory of being put into a black cab and driven away.

He awakes some six hours later, judging by the amount of stubble on his cheeks and the hollow feeling that's gnawing at his belly, in a room that's completely dark. Not so much as a sliver of light cuts through the blackness. It's like being reborn into a void.

The drug they've used leaves him feeling nauseous. His head spins as he slowly sits upright. His stomach clenches, and he knows he's going to be sick. He dry heaves, further proof that many hours have gone by since his forced removal, and it leaves his mouth feeling foul.

As his head clears he takes stock, first of himself, and then of his surroundings. He's sprawled naked on a floor composed of large, flat, stones that are fitted close without obvious seams of mortar. His captors haven't left him a stitch of clothing, not even his underwear. He wonders if it's because they are worried about tracking devices sewn into his pockets, or because, unlike his maverick younger brother, he has a reputation for protecting his dignity.

His neck is sore on the left side from the needle stab. Other than that, a careful examination of his body reveals he hasn't been roughly treated. He considers the data point for a moment and then files it away. Cautiously, he clambers to his feet, pausing balanced on his knees as a fresh wave of dizziness makes him sway. His surroundings aren't helping his balance. There's no way to orient himself in such a profound darkness, so he closes his eyes until the uneasy feeling passes and then puts one foot in front of him and pushes off of the toes of the other, straightening his legs until he is more or less upright. Raising one hand to guard his face against obstacles, he begins to explore.

There is a wall approximately ten feet from his starting point. Leaning against its cool surface both soothes an incipient headache and gives him additional data. He places his palm against its stones and shuffles forward. He estimates he's gone some ten or twelve feet when the the wall gives way to empty air. Frowning, he turns and retraces his steps, finds a corner, and feels his way along again. After approximately ten feet, he finds another corner. He keeps walking, stumbles when he leans against air, and has to catch himself. He's back where he started, and it occurs to him if he hadn't been fighting the effects of drugs and confusion, he might have realised sooner that the gap in the wall was in fact, the opening of a passageway.

Mycroft frowns as he reappraises his situation. He's still naked, cold, and hungry, he still has no idea why he's been spirited away, but at least he's not confined to a ten by ten foot stone cell. He chooses to see the potential of the passageway, rather than deciding out of hand that it must be a trap. Placing one palm against each of the stone walls, he begins to walk.

The air is cold and damp. It holds the musty smell of mould and decay. He has the sense that where ever his unknown captors have taken him, it's an old place, and very likely he is traversing a subterranean tunnel. He pauses to listen, and frowns again as he hears the faint murmuring of voices. They come from all around him, uneasy whisperings. The sound ceases abruptly as if someone has muted them. It's followed by a scrabbling noise. Rats squeak and then they run over his feet. Their claws dig into his flesh as they struggle for purchase, and then they push off and they're gone.

Mycroft gasps and then utters an undignified curse as he stumbles over something hard and cold. He drops to his knees and feels carefully along the ground. If his captors wanted him unnerved then the sudden appearance of the rats, rather than the disembodied voices, have done the job. On the one hand, at least he knows knows he's not completely alone. On the other, he is naked, and rats bite. It's not a welcome thought on which to dwell and he quickly forces it from his mind as his hand closes around the pommel of a sword.

Slowly, he rises to his feet, and tests the heft and weight of the blade. He still can't see, the blackness is completely profound, but the sword feels as if it was made to fit his hand. It's the perfect weight and balance for someone of his size. As a student, he trained in a salle, but it's been many years since he's touched a foil to his face guard. However needs must, and he is nothing if not flexible when faced with limited options.

The sword's presence raises interesting questions. For a prisoner, he's been given a remarkably free rein to wander about unfettered, and now he's been given a weapon. If this was a standard kidnapping for ransom – cash or an exchange of intelligence assets – the method of his taking might have been identical, but his subsequent treatment would have been very different. Mycroft's instincts tell him that there's something else at work; something other than a change of plans, or carelessness on the part of his captors.

His thoughts turn to secret meetings, the sort that are too sensitive to be conducted in government offices or safe houses, but that doesn't strike him as quite right either. There have been rumours – whispers he's heard travelling the back corridors at Whitehall and at Buckingham Palace – about an organisation so hush hush that they have no means of identification; no password or handshake, not even a cryptic insignia that would be invisible to any but its members. A society, that if the rumours are true, holds the sort of power that members of parliament and government ministers can only dream about as they scheme and claw their way over the careers of their peers.

In Mycroft's view, power is a tool to be used, like the sword in his hand, and not an end onto itself. In that respect, he's not an ambitious man. He doesn't dream of titles or accolades. As long as he has the information and the influence to resolve the issues that cross his desk in a timely and satisfactory manner, and his family name remains above reproach, then he's content.

There's the delicate clip clop of hooves against stone, and a low, whinnying laughter from somewhere up ahead. Mycroft pauses and raises the sword. "Who's there?" he calls into the darkness.

"A humble man." The voice doesn't come from in front of him but from all around, much as the whispering had earlier. It's of indeterminate gender and seems neither young nor old. "The perfect civil servant who aspires to nothing more than a job well done with a minimum of fuss. Is that really how you see yourself?"

Involuntarily, Mycroft flinches as if he's been slapped. Having someone reach into his mind and expose his thoughts is a violation of his dignity. He draws a breath and raises his head, pretending he can see his assailant in the dark. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he says as politely as if this is a fancy dress party, and he has chosen to attend as a somewhat eccentric naturist.

"You're cool under pressure," the voice remarks. "I'll give you that. But I believe we'll save the social niceties for later. Right now there's someone you need to see, and things you need to do."

Mycroft shrugs. "I'd gathered this wasn't a social call. Is it too much to ask for a briefing?"

There is a long pause before the voice replies. "Use your head. Use your heart. Choose wisely. We would prefer it if you survive. If you fail, your talents would be missed at Whitehall."

There's no additional instructions, not even a 'Chop Chop' or 'Off you go' before the sound of the hooves on stone diminishes, but Mycroft has the sense that somewhere a clock is ticking. He takes another breath and then walks on. He ignores his sense of disquiet as he mentally reviews the interview for useful information.

_Use your head. Use your heart. Choose wisely._ The words echo through his head over and over again as he wonders just what he is being sent to choose.

Light floods the passageway and he's blinded. Mycroft squeezes his eyelids shut as his optic nerves overload and tears wash over his eyes to protect them. It's pure dumb luck that he keeps his grip on the sword. He opens his eyes. His vision is blurred as his pupils fight to compensate. Blinking repeatedly helps a little. A man dressed in leather and chain-mail, like a knight of old, is standing in front of him. He's got a sword too, and it's poised to strike.

Mycroft reacts, relying on muscle memories left over from his old days in the salle. His fencing master would be appalled at his technique, but it's good enough to parry the knight's blow and briefly press his advantage before he's forced to defend himself once more. He knows he can't keep it up for long, the occasional round of golf or handball with a colleague is no substitute for rigorous physical training, but he doesn't need to. Just a few feet a way is the opening to another passageway.

The repeated clash of their swords vibrates through his bones, tears his sinews, and sends fire through his muscles. If he survives, he'll feel every bit of the fight for days. Their blades collide again, the knight advances, slipping past Mycroft's guard and drawing blood. Mycroft jumps back, barely saving himself from being skewered. He realises, as the wound burns and blood begins to trickle down onto his belly, that if he doesn't make his move soon, he's going to fail the challenge.

He raises his sword, gripping it with both hands. His arms are exhausted, but he has no choice. He yells and runs at the knight, who raises his sword to block. Mycroft dives underneath his blade, scraping his thighs and back against the flagstones before he gets first to his knees and then to his feet and stumbles into the new passageway. Iron bars drop from the header of the door frame, ending the fight as he is plunged once again into total darkness.

Blackness surrounds him like a velvet blanket. His chest heaves from exertion. His head spins from a potent blend of adrenaline and fear. He's not dead. He's barely even wounded, although the slice across his chest feels as if it's on fire, and he longs to rest it against the cold stones to soothe the pain. He presses his sweat-slick palm against it instead, and feels blood trickle from between his fingers.

Somebody claps. It's a slow measured sound in the darkness. His prowess against the knight has not gone unobserved. Something falls at his feet. Carefully, Mycroft kneels and searches the floor.

"You've earned that." The new voice is distinctly feminine, and vaguely familiar. Once again, it comes from no distinct place, rather it seems as if its been carried in from somewhere else on a current of cool air.

He finds a packet. The wrapping paper crinkles under his fingertips. There's a plastic flask filled with water, and some bread and cheese wrapped in a what feels like a linen napkin. Mycroft's stomach groans. It's been hours since his last meal. But rather than tearing into his reward, he allows himself a single mouthful of water before dribbling a little more of it onto the napkin and pressing that against the cut on his chest. His stomach growls louder, but he hesitates over the food. On the one hand, if there are more challenges like the swordfight to come, he'll need his strength. On the other hand, food is a potential bargaining chip. He takes one more sip of water and then re-wraps the rest. He can always eat it later, after he gets to the end of his quest.

His new surroundings are just as cold and dark as the previous passageway had been. It still smells of mould and damp, but there's a new odour, the foetid scent of dead things. It grows stronger as he moves towards the left side, and fainter when he moves to the right. Using that as a indicator, he hugs the right wall and finds another doorway. There's a musky scent, but it's preferable to the smell of death. The path underneath his feet slopes downward, and he's forced to steady himself more than once as he slips on the flagstones. "A little light wouldn't go amiss," he grumbles.

"Manners maketh man," the disembodied voice says sternly.

"Oh, excuse me. My apologies," Mycroft replies contritely. "If you please, a little light wouldn't go amiss. The ground has grown uneven."

"You had only to ask."

In the darkness, Mycroft smiles. The light level comes up slowly enough that he has time to acclimate and yet he cannot discern the source, the light just _is_. The smiles fades from his lips as he covers the last few yards of corridor and enters into a new chamber. The source of the musky smell becomes evident. It's a lion – a gigantic golden lion – napping on a marble plinth. It has a shimmering mane that catches the light as it yawns and stretches and regards him with speculative eyes.

"Good evening." The lion doesn't strike Mycroft as overtly hostile, so it seems prudent to be polite. He keeps the sword down close at his side.

"Good evening," the lion replies. His muzzle crinkles, as if he's distressed. "You seem cold. There's a chest behind you; in it you'll find something suitable."

Mycroft inclines his head politely again, and wonders briefly if he's not hallucinating. He puts the sword down, glad to be relieved of his burden, and then considers the parcel of food. "It's a meagre offering, but you're welcome to it." Hallucination or no, he'd prefer to stay on the lion's good side.

He loosens the wrapping and then places the cheese and bread on the plinth before seeking out the chest. Inside he finds a rough brown woollen robe of the sort a monk might wear, if he was a monk from the 12th century. The fabric is scratchy against his skin, but the warmth is welcome. 

He watches as the lion eats the simple meal and then wipes the crumbs delicately from his whiskers. "Pilgrim, I have a question for you," the lion says. "Who has sustained the greater loss? The man who lives in ignorance of his true worth, and thus is content to live with what life makes of him, or the one who knows he has the capacity to do great things, and yet through circumstances beyond his means, never reaches his potential?"

Mycroft takes a moment to consider the question from several angles. Clearly it has been asked, not out of idle curiosity, but with intention; once again he's being challenged about his life and how he views himself. Has he been the ignorant man? Up until that moment he hadn't thought so, but it seems that whoever has brought him here feels that he has been undervaluing his abilities. "One cannot miss what one doesn't know," he replies. "In the first case, ignorance would truly be bliss. Whilst in the second, the knowledge could be crushing."

The lion purrs. "Well answered, pilgrim. You may proceed." He jumps off the plinth and uses his paw to push a stone on the wall. A new door opens and the lion walks through.

Mycroft follows. He has the impression that he's nearing the end of his journey. This corridor, unlike the rest he's travelled, is illuminated by torchlight. There are rich tapestries hanging on the walls, and a thick carpet under their feet. Warmth seeps slowly back into his bones. The cut on his chest still stings, but it no longer burns. The adrenaline from the confrontation with the knight has long dissipated, but he's been energised by the problem of surviving the night, and he feels, on the balance, quite buoyant as he is escorted into a formal audience chamber.

The knight is there. He drops to one knee before the lion in a show of respect, and then backs away to take up his post at the end of the dais. Despite his long training in the art of being circumspect, Mycroft can't help staring. The knight has remove his helmet, and his face has been bisected on the right side by a deep scar that runs from his chin to the crown of his shaven head. Although he appears to be a young man, his eyes, as he dips his chin in acknowledgement to Mycroft, are ancient. It's as if he's seen too much of life. Mycroft has known men like this before, and all of them have endured great hardships.

The black robed and hooded men and women seated behind the long oak table on the dais stand as one.

"You made it, I see."

Mycroft forcibly clamps his teeth together as a unicorn enters the room. He recognises the voice. It's that of his first guide, the one who had pulled the thoughts from his head and then sent him on his way.

"I merely did as you suggested," Mycroft replies humbly. It never hurts to share the credit, especially when one is trying to keep one's head attached to one's shoulders. "I am indebted to you for your excellent advice." 

"You've made it this far, Mr Holmes, there's no need to polish the apple," says the woman who stands at the centre of the assembly. She sits and the rest of her companions follow suit. "I'm sure by now you're wondering what this is all about."

Mycroft knows her voice too. And he realises that he's heard it before, although it had sounded much different from across a conference table than it had echoing, disembodied, off a dark, stone passageway.

The unicorn trots over to the lion and together the pair of them make themselves comfortable on a separate dais.

Mycroft drops to his knees. "Do I have the honour of addressing the Council of the Regents?"

Along the high table there's a ripple of murmuring voices. The unicorn snickers its high, whinnying laugh, and the lion purrs with delight. The knight looks as if he'd like to give Mycroft a thump with the pommel of his sword. Perhaps uttering the fabled name had been out of order.

"Well spotted," the woman replies. "I am the Arbiter. You may address me as ma'am or m'lady. Do you know what the Council of Regents is, Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "I don't believe this is the time to speak of rumours, ma'am."

The Arbiter glances at her companions who once again are murmuring amongst themselves. "I believe we've chosen well. You see before you the true shadow government of our great nation. We influence those who believe they hold the power in our green and pleasant land. My colleagues and I are the avatars of the British Ideal: Justice, Temperance, Fortitude, Faith, Hope, and Love. We have chosen you to assume the mantle of Prudence; the living embodiment of foresight, wisdom, and common sense."

"I'm honoured, m'lady." Hesitantly, Mycroft looks up. "But I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"You have served your country faithfully, Mycroft Holmes, and you will continue to do so. As a member of the Regents, you will finally fulfil your true potential, and through your leadership, those who serve with you will also find theirs."

The rumours are true. There is a secret society and they are asking him to join its ranks. Mycroft had told the lion that a man who knows his potential and finds himself thwarted from fulfilling it would suffer a crushing sense of loss. He knows if he declines this offer and walks away he'll feel it keenly for the rest of his days. "Then for the good of this great nation, I accept."

"The cup," the knight announces as he brings a carved wooden chalice up to the dais.

Each reagent touches their right thumb to their forehead, then their lips, and finally to their heart as the knight passes by them. Finally, he presents the cup to Mycroft.

"Drink." The command of the Regents echoes through the chamber, it's spoken with such force.

He takes the cup and obeys.

Warmth spreads through Mycroft's body. It starts in his chest and flows outward. Light fills his eyes and he's blinded, just as he had been in the passageway before he was confronted by the knight. His brain feels as if a thousand new connections are being made simultaneously, and he gasps, despairing at his former ignorance of the world he inhabits as he is gifted with true understanding. It's as if he's taken a sip of truth in its purest form, uncontaminated by any shading or agenda. He collapses under the weight of it, and sprawls face down onto the floor. 

When Mycroft wakes the following morning, he's at home in his own bed. He stares up at the ceiling and despairs that he has been deluded by the most elaborate dream he's ever experienced. There is no secret society pulling strings or keeping the MPs in check. He hasn't been recruited to join its ranks. He is, as he has always been, a humble civil servant, influential in his own minor way, but still only a cog in the great machine of government.

He throws back the bedclothes and pauses at the dull ache in his muscles and the faint tug of adhesive as it pulls the hairs on his chest. Mycroft peeks beneath his pyjama top and sees a bandage. Carefully, he peels back one edge. Underneath is a neat row of butterfly plasters. There's a slip of paper in his breast pocket. He reads the message, just four words, and feels giddy with joy and relief that he hasn't been imagining.

_'We'll be in touch.'_

end


End file.
